Witches and Cognac
by Tearoom Saloon
Summary: The last thing teenage Sherlock Holmes wants to do on Halloween is attend a class party. Much to his dismay, he gets dragged to one anyway. At least he has a witch and a flask to keep him company in his sulk.
1. Chapter 1

One word prompt suggested by MorbidbyDefault. The word: Witch

* * *

There was a knock at the door. "Are you two coming or what?"

Sherlock looked up from his cheesy horror novel. John was lacing up his boots, fake mustache securely on his still stubble-free face. "Almost ready!" He turned to his best friend. "Aren't you coming? Sherlock, you're not even in costume!"

"Why should I participate in this particularly _useless_ holiday?"

"It's not the whole holiday, it is a party; it's fun and we get sweets."

"Or, rather, you have fun dancing and consuming sweets and I get bitter and intoxicated in the corner, rambling to whatever object looks the friendliest."

John frowned. "You can at least dress up?"

Sherlock snorted. "I'm under the impression that my usual self is frightening enough; you yourself said my personality can scare away small children."

"That was in jest."

"Duly noted," he said, going back to his book.

"Please, for an hour?"

There was another knock. "We're going to be late."

"You should probably get that," Sherlock said, turning a page.

John glared and opened the door. Sara was on the other side, clad in a floor-length red dress, her dark hair pinned up in waves. "Whoa…who are you going as?"

"Satine from _Moulin Rouge_," said John's girlfriend, giving him a peck on the cheek. "And you are…?"

"Charles Darwin, of course."

It was _so _appropriate she was Satine. Really, it was. Sherlock smiled at the irony.

"And…Sherlock are you even dressed up?"

"No, I'm not going."

"_Sherlock!_" Sara whined. "It's a party! It'll be fun."

"No."

"You're going to upset Irene."

_Ooh, _she was going to play _that_ card. He winced. "Maybe I'll stop by."

"It's now or never," said John. "I know you—you'll just come as it ends."

Sherlock looked up from his novel again, glowering. "I hate you."

"You can fall over Irene and leave, if it suits you."

"_I do not fancy her!_"

John rolled his eyes. "Right. _Intellectually attracted to her mind._"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "I _really_ hate you."

Sara laughed.

That was the last _fucking __**straw**_. He'd go, oh yes he'd go, and he would sit in a corner and drink until he inconvenienced John. It wouldn't take too long; he had a bottle of cognac around here somewhere.

"Are you actually bringing your own alcohol?" John asked as they left.

"I cannot stomach beer," Sherlock said snootily, tucking a flask into his jacket pocket.

"And you're just going to drink?"

"And talk to the parrot."

"…this sounds very un-Sherlock to me."

"In fact, it sounds _very _Sherlock to me, thank you." He wasn't actually sure he'd drink. Maybe he'd just fake being inebriated to listen in on conversations and bother John. That was the more intelligent option, no question. These festivities would be dull, no doubt, considering it was a social gathering and he _detested_ anything too social. He could act the part when he wanted, but he had no desire to be a polite, well-mannered human being this evening.

The party was at one of the unused, abandoned houses beside the campus. It seemed to be a staple of St. Matthew's Halloween parties, to take place in these decrepit buildings. Sherlock could always hear them from his dorm room, irritated and disturbed by the noise. It was always a mystery that the teachers didn't shut them down almost immediately.

This year, it was hosted at Bates House, to the northwest. It used to be a grand old Victorian, with a great porch and four stories. The paint was peeling, the stairs creaked, and Sherlock was certain that there was something living in the basement—most likely raccoons, but the children tonight would peg it for a monster, a demon, a murderer.

Sadly, he would have enjoyed a good murder right now.

Oh, no, no, not like that, just as a case to cure his constant boredom. Murderers were more interesting than missing jewellery and disappeared pets. Not even eight o'clock and his circulating thoughts were of a morbid nature. He should have brought some Poe.

"Be on your best behavior," John warned as they approached the house. "Or so help me god I will—"

"—do something unpleasant. How was I even invited to this?"

"What do you mean?"

"The whole class hates me," Sherlock said with a slight smile. "What in heaven's name would make them ask me to join in a social situation?"

"Maybe because scaring people is right up your alley," John snapped.

"Maybe." He stopped at the door. "Ladies first." Sara eyed him suspiciously as she entered. John pushed Sherlock inside and followed.

It was loud. There was no electricity in the house; instead, candles had been set up (in high, hard-to-knock-over places), along with flashlights and strings of battery Christmas lights. Sherlock could barely make out faces in the dim, fluttering light. It would be so _easy_ for him to slip out of sight tonight. It was like the gods were smiling down at him.

Sherlock turned to go down an emptier hall and was caught on the shoulder by a slim hand. "_Sherlock Holmes_," purred his capturer.

He turned to meet the speaker, already knowing her face.

Well, her face was a bit covered in make-up. Just a bit…all over…completely white. Irene Adler smirked, her lips a bluish white. Her eye shadow accented her lips; hair was sprayed white and adorned with a little crystal tiara. She was in a long white dress embedded with crystal drops. She went all-out.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "I wasn't aware winter had come."

"Hush, I worked _hours_ on this." She raised a paled hand to her chin, stroking it gently. "What are _you_ doing here, and who are you supposed to be?"

"I got dragged, and I've come as myself."

"Yourself?"

"I frighten small children, apparently."

"I'll give you that." Her smirk grew feline, eyes sparking in that dark way they did when she schemed. "How about you accompany me for a drink, hmm?"

"Not interested, I have other plans." _What_ plans? "Fitting costume, by the way, the Snow Queen. I always knew you had a heart of ice."

The good humor fled from her face. "I could say the same."

"The difference is of it I was previously aware." He turned and strode down the darker hallway. After a few turns, he ended up in what used to be the parlor. There was a grand fireplace parallel to the door. The furniture in this room was old and moth-eaten, but it was a perfect place to hide out.

That is, until the couples would come looking for empty places to hook up.

Ugh. Romance. Sexual relations.

He would defend his space. There were numerous things in the room to throw, not to mention a fire poker hanging on the mantle. Yes, his room would be well-guarded. He'd look like a madman, but, well he already _did_. Didn't hurt to add to the horror of fright night, right?

…

There was nothing to do. He planned out ten different ways to ambush intruders in the room, figured out how we would wield sixteen of the items, and composed his last will and testament if he were to get killed by someone else's stupidity or drunkenness tonight. Highly unlikely, but it was good to be prepared. He was always prepared.

It was nearly half-past nine when he saw his first other human since entering the room. He had succumbed to the cognac at nine, and had barely gotten to enjoy his alone time with his flask. (There were, unfortunately, no stuffed animals or parrots).

As the footsteps approached, he fixed himself in one of the armchairs by the fireplace, holding the fire poker like one would a sword they were polishing. They were carrying a light, and he was slightly blinded by the brightness, which was far greater than that of the moon, which had been illuminating the abandoned space.

"John said I'd find you hiding somewhere." It was a girl's voice. Not Irene's deeper, smoother voice, nor Sara's trill, airy one, but one he recognized well.

"Molly?"

Sherlock's lab partner turned off her flashlight. By the moonlight, he could see the smile on her lips. She, unlike Irene and Sara, was not donning an overly flashy costume. It was a simple, flowy black dress in an older style—Edwardian or later—with a big black-and-some-other-color belt (it was far too dark to tell pigments). She had a chiffon shawl—he thought it was chiffon, anyway—and a pointed wide-brimmed hat. "I didn't even expect you to be here."

_I didn't expect you to find me_, he thought with an internal groan. He liked Molly a little more than well enough and they got on, but she couldn't hold a conversation for too long without turning into a mouse. He was either going to have stellar company or no company at all. "You're a witch."

She nodded. "I wanted to go for something a bit older, but this was the best dress I found when I went out thrift shopping. What are you?"

"I'm Sherlock Holmes."

She laughed and sat down across from him. "I figured. It doesn't seem like you to dress up. Did John drag you?"

He nodded. "I threatened to get roaring drunk and harass him for the whole night when he suggested I socialize."

"How are you when you're drunk?"

"Insufferable."

She unsuccessfully attempted to stifle a grin. "Please don't tell me you were going to try that off the beer here. It's subpar."

"I take it you know from experience."

"I may have had a glass."

"Not as innocent as you appear, are you?"

"Hey!" She threw a small pillow at him, giggling. "I've never been nearly as innocent as you peg me!"

"I guess I miscalculated somewhere. To answer your question, no, I brought my own brandy. I expected John to cart me around by the arm to talk to people. He has decided against that option, thank the heavens."

"What kind?"

"Molly Hooper! Do you mean to tell me you're into hard liquors?"

"Sherlock Holmes! Are you failing to deduce something?"

"Touché. I always figured girls went for the sweeter drinks."

"That's such a generalization. Can't I like both?" She got up and kneeled beside his chair. "Now I ask again, what kind?"

She must have had more than one glass. She was calmer now than she usually was around him. She tended to drop objects and fumble her words, but now she was open and…holding a conversation. He breathed in heavily. "You smell of strawberries."

"Okay, you caught me, I had _one _daiquiri."

"Just one?"

"Can't you tell by the strength of the scent or something?"

"No; you use a vanilla shampoo that overpowers the strawberries."

"Ten points to Slytherin," she said, a hand now resting on his knee. He wasn't too sure how he felt about the touching.

"Ravenclaw, actually."

She rolled her eyes. "Ravenclaw. Ravenclaw? Sherlock, you're _ambitious_, and frankly, all the things you do are about _you_. When was the last time you stopped to think about anyone else? You're a Slytherin. Also, I didn't know you read Harry Potter."

"I don't read much of any novels."

"Except those crap paperbacks you bring to Chemistry every day."

"They are _not_ crap."

"They are cheesy airport bookstore-grade novels, if they even deserve to be called that." She made a face. "If you're going to read horror, why not read a good author, like Stephen King or Cynthia Asquith?"

"Because I like the crappy, cheesy novels?"

She shook her head, smiling. "I may never understand you, Sherlock."

"I doubt anyone truly will."

"So anyway, back to my question, what kind of brandy do you have?"

He pulled out his flask from where it had slipped between the cushions, dropping the poker to the floor. "Martell Cognac."

"May I have a sip?"

"If I didn't know you any better, Molly, I'd say you're trying to score free alcohol off me."

"No," she said smoothly, "I fancy you way better than the alcohol."

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow.

"Company. Your company. Wow, sorry, that was phrased all wrong."

"Freudian slip, Miss Hooper?"

She lay down on the floor. "Let me die alone."

"That would be far from gentlemanly of me."

She snorted. "Since when have _you_ been gentlemanly?"

…he had to give her that. Sherlock lowered himself onto the floor, sitting beside the now-curled up Molly. He opened the flask, took a swig, and laid a hand on her arm. "Here, have a sip. I didn't hear anything that you didn't want me to."

She looked up through her auburn locks. "This nice you is freaking me out. You're not nearly snippy enough tonight, it's starting to worry me."

"It's the alcohol. I'm insufferable drunk but decent when tipsy."

"More decent than normal, you mean." She sat up, taking the flask from his hands. "You're sure this is okay? Martell is expensive."

"It's perfectly fine; we're lab partners, right? If it weren't, I'd glare at you until you left the room."

"Hurray, lab partners," she said dully. "_Just_ what I want." She raised the flask to her mouth and stopped, bringing it back down to examine in the poor light. "This is _engraved_. The whole thing. Are those leaves?"

"It's the Tree of Life from Norse mythology, Yggdrasil. It was my great-great grandfather's."

"And your parents gave it to you? Even though you're underage?"

"Nah, nicked it from my mom's room when I was ten."

"You're an interesting case, Sherlock Holmes," she said and took a sip.

"Thank you, I try. Or rather, I don't, and I happen to be an interesting case anyway."

"That's really good," she said, handing him back the ornate flask.

"I only acquire the best, I assure you. No reason to settle for poorer quality."

"You obviously haven't seen my love life."

That was a…rather unexpected comment. "I have, and I feel as though you can do better. We've been lab partners for a year and a quarter now."

"Yeah, like who?"

"I'd say John, but he has Sara."

Molly laughed. "First, John comes to _me _with all of his girl problems, and I'd really, _really_ rather not get involved for that reason. Two, he barely has Sara."

"Ah, you're aware of it too?"

She nodded. "She's been meaning to break up with him for a month now. Not the way I'd go about things, personally, having another chew toy before finalizing things, but hey, not my business."

"That will be _delightful_ to clean up after," Sherlock grumbled.

"I'll be doing more work than you, he doesn't much like talking about that sort of stuff with you because you just throw logic in his face and complain about emotions."

"…ah."

"Oh, Sherlock, Sherlock, I'm sorry I didn't mean to imply you're a bad friend. I'm sure you're perfectly fine—I mean we get on perfectly sound—"

_You also fancy me_, he thought. But that factor did not make him extremely uncomfortable around her, like it did with every other female to show an interest…

"—but John just needs more emotional support than you're willing to give. And anyway, I think it won't be so bad."

He looked at her, confused, watching the way the moon caught her hair, her figure, the soft curves of her face. "It won't be so bad? Molls, they've been dating for a few months now."

She blinked. "You just called me Molls."

"Shit, did I?"

"Freudian slip, Mister Holmes?"

"Shut up." He grinned and gave her a light shove. "You were saying?"

"I saw him talking to Mary tonight—Mary Morstan? She's dressed like some American president—and they seemed to hit it off rather well. Of course, Sara, the hypocrite, wasn't having any of it."

"Serves her right, cheating on him like that."

Molly leaned back against the chair with him, their shoulders touching. "Question. You're his best mate; you know his girlfriend is cheating. Why haven't you said anything?"

"Well…" Sherlock sighed. He took another swig of cognac and handed it to Molly. "I guess because I do not want to hurt him, even if that leaves him in ignorance."

"And you don't feel guilty?"

"I mean, I do. Contrary to popular belief, I do have emotions, you know."

"You just choose to hide them because it reduces the pain." She gave it back, her fingers lingering on his. "And you'd rather not feel broken when you need to look strong. You're a dam, Sherlock. You can only sustain so much damage before you crack and everything floods." She looked nervously up at him. "And it will flood. The harder you try to hold it in, the harder you'll fall."

He stared at her, slightly too stunned for words at the way the conversation jumped off a very high and very fatal cliff. "How do you know?"

"I've been watching it happen to my dad for years. He doesn't understand it though, so I'm not sure if he'll ever get better."

And then, Sherlock decided to show compassion. "Give me a hug."

Molly squinted at him. "What?"

"You heard me. I don't want to say it again."

She reached out and laid a hand on his forehead. "Are you okay?"

"Yes, I'm fine, I'm slightly intoxicated, I drank the majority of that flask by myself. _Please_ do not make me repeat it."

She gave him a cautious look and sank into his arms, burying her head in his chest. "I'm sorry; I know it makes you feel uncomfortable."

Her warmth lit a fire he'd been repressing from his conscious since August. "No, it's…it's nice."

"Are you _drunk_?"

"_Slightly _intoxicated, Molly, only slightly."

Sherlock felt the weight of her body as he breathed, watching the rise and fall of her chest. She was cute, he guessed, in her mousey little way. Surprisingly less mousey now that she'd broken out of her meek exterior. She wasn't unattractive either, by any standards—

No, no, he didn't like girls like that. He didn't like boys like that. He had no time for that, not with school and cases and his mind and _oh his powerful, powerful mind._ It wouldn't let him be attracted to anyone else, no, that would impede its process.

His body was another matter. He was a teenage boy; they generally liked kissing and touching and sex because of hormones. He wasn't exempt from the hormones, as much as he wanted, and Molly pressed against his chest was causing his skin to prickle, and his mind was giving in, defenses crumbling.

He could do worse, he figured.

"Who do you suppose if not John, then?"

"Pardon?" She rested her head on the flat of his chest below his clavicle. Her breath tickled his neck.

"You were complaining that you could do better than your past relationships, and you shot down John. Did you have anyone else in mind?"

She mumbled something into his shirt.

"…I didn't catch that."

"What about Gilbert, the ginger boy at the table across from us?"

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "Oh please, not him. He has serious commitment issues; he's been through more relationships in the past three months than you and John for the past three years."

"Watch it."

"What? It's true. All it means is that you and John have entered a fair number of relationships, which is completely of your choosing."

"I've only had four boyfriends since I've gotten to Saint Matthew's and three of the four happened last year."

"Remember when you dated _Joshua?_"

Molly slapped Sherlock on the chest. "Can we _not_?"

"What about Greg in the class above us?"

"Noooo, no I've had my poor experience with older boys, let's not."

"Charlie in our English class?"

"You _know_ people in our English class? I always assumed you slept through the whole thing."

"I do, that's why I've got lower marks in that class. Anyway, Charlie."

"He has a long-distance relationship with some girl from his hometown."

"Davie, sits with John sometimes?"

"Kind of a douchebag, not my type."

"Tom, same table as Gilbert?"

"Gay. So, so gay."

"Peter who was in our Latin class?"

"He does drugs. I'm not too into that."

"I've noticed. I'm running out of suitable boys."

Molly sighed. "Me too."

Sherlock gave her a sly look. "You know, when you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth, right?"

"I have never heard that before but I will pretend I have for the sake of your point."

"I made it up; I doubt you've heard it. But when you get rid of things that cannot happen, whatever's left is the right way to go, correct?"

"I…guess?"

"None of those boys work, but there's one left."

"Enlighten me, O Great Oracle."

"There's me."

Molly sat up, facing him straight on. "You."

"Me."

"You, Sherlock Holmes, who scoffs in the face of romance, who detests when people flirt with you, who mocks couples?"

"I figure it might be worth a shot."

She snorted. "Yeah, right, when the seventh circle of hell melts."

"I'm serious."

"I—I'm…well, I'm surprised, and I'm really flattered, but I'm also…confused. What do you gain out of it?"

"I get a smart, pretty girl with whom I can have civilized, intelligent conversations."

"And I get the most attractive boy in our year, if not the school."

"Molly—"

She was blushing profusely. "No, I don't care, you're _very_ pretty, Sherlock. You're practically a genius and you're interesting and off-putting but witty and satirical and also cynical and serious. And you're playing head games with me." She moved to stand.

He caught one of her wrists. "Molly, wait!"

"Wait _what_? For you to tell me it was a jest?"

"No, it—_Christ_, Molly. I haven't been good to you for the past few years, have I?"

"Not one bit, Sherlock."

"Well, I'm sorry. I'm not good with people."

"I'm aware."

He pulled her closer to himself. "I apologize for whatever I've put you through, I do, I'm being honest right now. I…I want to make it right." He took a deep breath. "I'd kiss you, but I'm not sure how."

"A kiss won't fix everything, but it's a step in the right direction…you've _never_ kissed someone before?"

"…No?"

"Okay, erm." She was nervous, her hands shaking. "You sort of…" Molly clambered on top of him so their heads lined up. "You tilt your head and you…this is really hard to explain. Just…follow my lead." She leaned in close, head at a slight angle. Sherlock copied her, closing his eyes.

Her mouth was warm, gently tugging at his. She tasted of strawberries and cognac, smelling of vanilla. She melded into him at the lips, encasing him with sensory detail. His senses—they were _exploding_. God, if _this_ is what it felt like to kiss someone, he could see a point to all the excitement. He never wanted to stop.

Sherlock's arms wrapped around her and he pushed backwards, pinning her to the ground. Her hands tugged at his shirt, finding their way to the warm skin on his back.

He pulled back to look down at Molly, severing their connection. "Is this okay?"

"This is so much more than okay," she whispered, one hand coming forward to stroke the black curls dangling over his forehead.

"I'm afraid I'm not good at this."

She giggled. "Practice," she said slowly, bringing his mouth back to hers. "Practice."


	2. Chapter 2

It was John who found them later. He came storming down the hallway, causing Sherlock to jump. He'd forgotten there were other people in the house, and he wasn't sure how well John would take to catching him with a girl. _Molly_, of all people.

"Sherlock, I know you're around here somewhere," John called from the hall.

"In the parlor!" Molly called back from her perch on his lap.

"He's going to _flip_," Sherlock muttered, tightening his grip on her waist.

"Would you rather he walk in on us snogging?"

He shook his head violently. One, John might have a heart attack. Two, they had to stop that due to sore, swollen lips. It was a completely worthwhile cost, having wanted to kiss the girl in his arms for the past two months—not that he'd fully admit to that.

"I just—" John growled, storming in, "—oh _god._" He blinked, looking from Sherlock to Molly and back to Sherlock. Instinctively, Sherlock drew Molly closer to him, a hostile look quickly flashing across his face. He sank back in the armchair, embarrassed.

John sighed and began to pace. "I get dumped, and best mate gets a girl. That is what this is, isn't it? Girlfriends happen to be your area?" He paused. "No, that's ridiculous. No girl would be stupid enough to get involved with you. There must be a different explanation."

Molly turned to him, frowning. Sherlock cocked an eyebrow and shrugged. She leaned in, pecking him on the lips.

Sherlock grinned as he heard John's exasperated groan. "Molly, we're going to have a talk tomorrow."

"Oh, give me _some _credit, John," Sherlock said with an eye roll.

"No, I'm not giving you any credit, I'm upset, can you stop rubbing that in my face?"

"Rubbing what in your face?"

"_That!_"

"Ah." Sherlock let go of his hold on Molly as she stood up. "Sorry, John."

"You were too good for her," Molly said, walking to hug him.

"Yeah, whatever, can we leave?"

"Sure." Sherlock reached for Molly's hat (which had long-ago fallen off) and pocketed his flask.

It felt awkward, going back through the house. For one, they had finished the brandy, and the world was fuzzy on the edges. Molly walked beside him, her head up to his shoulder in her heels. He'd forgotten how short she was. Then again, John was barely up to his chin—Sherlock was just _tall_.

People stared, mostly at John. Some looks were intrigued, others sympathetic. Irene was glaring at Sherlock, however, furious and defensive. He pulled Molly closer to him when they passed, a smirk crossing his features. No one stopped them as they left; no one said a word.

"I can get myself back," Molly said as they crossed the grounds.

"No, I'm walking you," John said sternly, taking her by the shoulder.

Sherlock shook his head. "Shouldn't I do that?"

"No, I have to talk to her; you go back to our room. Do you have anything aside from brandy?"

"I should," he grumbled dejectedly. "If not, Roger does."

"Good, get that, I'll meet you in ten minutes."

Merrywinter was empty, as it was just nearly midnight. He went up the stairs and down the right corridor to his room. It was unnaturally quiet, and the complete absence of other students was…disturbing, surprisingly. Roger and Patrick would be in the basement, though, with their gaming systems. They weren't fans of parties, just like him. He spent last Halloween killing zombies with them and a handle of vodka.

He thought back to that and laughed. God, his drinking habits were _horrible_, weren't they? Maybe that was something he should sort out before New Year's; last year was just one long, near-blackout escapade involving a disappearing necklace, three bloody chopsticks, Mycroft's car, and a pot of undercooked pasta.

Sherlock unbuttoned his jacket and tossed it ungracefully in the closet…he'd get to that later. He sat down and yanked his trunk out from under his bed. He always kept spare alcohol in here, _if_ he had any left. If not, he'd have to go all the way back downstairs to see if Roger had anything that wasn't akin to drinking antifreeze or lighter fluid.

He felt his heart sink. He pulled out the bottle of Goldschläger—cinnamon schnapps with little gold flakes—he had intended to give to John for his half-year anniversary (he was a good friend when he felt like it). Hah, _that_ was now useless. It'd have to do; he'd make up some excuse for having it instead of a bottle of whisky or scotch—Sherlock's preferred drinks.

"If he ends up drunk, I swear, I am _not _cleaning up," Sherlock grumbled. "I am through playing housekeeper, Henry."

The Henry in question was a mid-sized black king snake, kept in a tank piled on books and a chest at the foot of Sherlock's bed. Henry David Thoreau, a tenth birthday present. He wasn't even sure what his father said to the dean to allow him the snake.

John hated Henry. So it was only fitting he returned when Sherlock was pouring himself the schnapps with Henry pretending to be a scarf.

"Why is it always the snake?"

"I like my snake, John. He needs to be let out sometimes."

"But—your shoulders—what if it bites you?"

Sherlock sighed. "He's a constrictor, John, we've been over this."

"But then what if it constricts your neck?"

"Well then I keep him well fed and don't bother him." Sherlock reached a hand up to pet Henry's head. "Now, John, would you care for this alcohol or not?"

John made a growling noise and sat down across from Sherlock. He took one look at the bottle and raised an eyebrow. "You hate schnapps."

"Yes, I do."

"You have entire bottle."

"I _had_ an entire bottle, I've poured some."

"It's not even sour apple."

Sherlock smiled. John remembered the only kind he drank. "No, it's cinnamon."

"Right," John said, "that's what I drink."

He sighed. He wasn't feeling up to lying to John, not after what happened with Sara. "It was for you, for your half-year. I had a crippling sense of worry that I hadn't spent nearly enough money on the gift, but I recalled you were quite fond of this and gave up worrying."

"I—you did something _nice?_"

"I have my moments."

"And you remembered something that didn't directly involve you."

"Well, I remembered it was a thing, but I forgot the date, actually."

John laughed. "So you could have been a full month late."

"Yes, I suppose I could have," he agreed with a smile. "Now come, I didn't pour it to let it collect dust. I even brought up ice. Tell me your troubles." He leaned forward, a hand on his chin.

"God, you're already drunk."

"Just _barely_."

"All right. So I—"

"She was a worthless cow who didn't deserve half of you."

John stared, a displeased look on his face.

"Sorry, continue."

"I didn't see it coming."

"Did you speak to Molly about it?"

He nodded. "She saw it." He looked up at Sherlock, glass in hand. "You did too, didn't you?"

Not the face, not the puppy eyes, anything but the begging face. Sherlock broke. "…yeah."

"And you didn't _tell_ me?"

"I thought you'd be upset."

"Of course I'd be upset! My girlfriend was _cheating _on me, and two of my friends—one of them my _closest_ friend—know and don't say anything about it!" He drained his cup and slammed it on the floor. "How would _you_ feel?"

"I—"

"You'd be emotionless, Spock."

That stung. "Do you understand how guilty I felt? How _horrible_ that was for me to keep a secret?"

"_Then why didn't you say anything!?_" John bellowed.

Sherlock grew quiet, setting his glass down. "I was afraid you'd be hurt and blame me. Everyone always blames me, so I thought it would only be natural."

The fire of John's rage extinguished as quickly as it had ignited. "Sherlock—"

"Forget it; this isn't going to be about me."

"But—"

"No buts, please, continue being enraged."

John smirked. "You're a real piece of work."

"I said continue, didn't I? Go on."

"She was kind of a bitch, wasn't she?"

"Remember when she made you take her out to that tea shop—"

"Oh god, don't bring that up."

"Ickle Johnnykins."

"I will kill you and your future children."

"You can try!"

John poured himself another glass, laughing. "One of these days, Sherlock, you're going to wake up with a knife sticking out of you."

"Or a poisoned dart. I'd like to go as interestingly as possible. I doubt I'll live long enough to have children."

"Not even thirty and in a ditch somewhere?"

"If Mycroft has his way, yes."

"Well, damn, I'd like to see your kids."

Sherlock barked a laugh. "They would be the most insufferable, poorly-mannered _brats_."

"I take it they'd learn from the best insufferable git in the country?"

Sherlock grinned, nodding. "Yes, that they would."

John smiled, pouring himself more. "So Molly says you're a terrible kisser."

Sherlock ran a hand through his hair and chuckled. "Shit."

"I guess that's understandable since she had to deal with your _virginal lips_."

"If you don't watch it there'll be a sword coming out of your back tomorrow morning," he warned, draining a cup. "I _really_ hate cinnamon."

"Then stop drinking my schnapps."

"No, I can't let you drink alone."

"Sherlock—"

"No, John, it's against bro code!"

"You're going to be _so _gone tomorrow."

"And I will regret every minute of it whole-heartedly then, but for now, give me that _freaking _bottle!"

He grabbed the Goldschläger and guarded against his chest, slapping at John's hand. "It's mine now."

John tried to keep from laughing. "Now you're just getting ridiculous."

"I should quit."

"You should. You should also put that snake back before you fall over and crush him, or worse, it escapes."

Sherlock handed the bottle back to John and stood up, slightly off-balance. He wandered back over to Henry's cage, gently lowering the snake back into his habitat.

"Thanks, Sherlock."

"For what?"

"For cheering me up."

"That is the first time anyone has _ever_ said that to me. Usually it's 'get lost, Sherlock, you're pissing me off' or 'shut up, freak, no one asked you.'"

"Well, I'm glad you're here. Won't be the last time I say it. I appreciate your effort to make me feel better, though I must say you're dreadful at it."

"But you just said you felt better?"

"That's _because_ you're dreadful. It's funny to watch."

"Piss off, John. Would you like another glass?"

* * *

Sunlight was the last thing Sherlock wanted to see, ever.

His head was a wreck and every tiny sound was drumming against his skull.

"I'm never drinking again."

"You said that last time," John said, pulling the blinds open.

"_What are you doing you sanguine coward._"

"You're Shakespeare-hungover, aren't you?"

"You will stifle in your own report."

"I've always found it interesting that you can quote Shakespeare so accurately when hungover, but cannot for the life of you read classic literature."

"Shakespeare isn't classic literature, he's a playwright."

"But still."

"Close the damn curtains, John, I'm going deaf."

"Blind, Sherlock, the correct word there is blind."

"I hate you."

"Right, well, I'm going to breakfast with Paul and Connor."

"Bring me sausage."

"Bring me sausage…?"

"Quickly."

John sighed. "Fine. I'll see you in an hour."

Sherlock groaned and rolled over. His brain was throbbing. John never got hungover. Of course, John didn't drink nearly as much. He was a social drinker. Sherlock drank when he got bored. Which was often. So he ended up hungover often.

This was an awful habit.

After what felt like an eternity, there was a knock on the door. Did John forget his keys? No, he'd be yelling through the wood if he had. Maybe if he just rolled over, they would go away.

The knocking persisted.

Sherlock stumbled out of bed, crossing the creaking, headache-causing floor. The wood was cold on his bare feet, and far too smooth. He yanked the door open. "What?"

Molly was outside, fully-dressed and everything. She was wearing clips in her hair. She looked cute. And was blushing very, very hard. What…

Oh. He was in boxers.

Sherlock closed the door and crawled back under his blankets.

Then last night's events slapped him in the face.

He got up, dizzy, wrapping a blanket around himself. Hopefully he'd be decent enough. "Sorry," he mumbled after opening the door again. "I'm hungover."

"I figured."

"I thought it wasn't good manners to let John drink alone."

"How gentlemanly of you."

"Don't take this the wrong way, but why are you here? Not that I don't want you here, but I'm curious."

"John thought you'd need someone to make sure you didn't break code or try to cure your hangover with chemistry and illegal substances."

"Oh, that was one time. He's too paranoid."

"Did it work?"

"Made it a thousand times worse. I could _see_ my pain."

She smiled. "So can I do anything for you?"

"I want sausages. And eggs."

"I'm not about to run across the grounds for you."

"Dammit."

"Do you have Advil somewhere?"

"In my dresser, top left drawer," Sherlock said, sitting back down on his bed. "I feel like I've punched a wall with my head."

Molly frowned, bringing him the bottle. "What do you usually do when you get hungover?"

"…drink."

"…nope, that's not going to fly today. My roommate does this all the time; I'm a pro at taking care of post-drunk people. You need water."

Molly snatched one of last night's dirty glasses and went to the door. "I'll be right back, okay?"

Sherlock nodded, curling back onto his pillows. He felt ridiculous. And embarrassed. He didn't need this doting. He could take care of himself, right?

Oh, nope, nope, his head said absolutely not. It wasn't even as if he were terribly hungover. Mycroft was right—Sherlock was smart and nearly impenetrable, but he fell _hard_, whether it was from physical or mental ailments. He was a child who stubbed his toe.

Molly returned after a short moment, scotch glass full of water. "Did you dry swallow the Advil? Please say no, it's awful for you, pills can open in your throat and burn a hole through—"

"No, I didn't. No more medical descriptions, my stomach's already upset."

"I should have gotten ginger ale." Molly swore and sat down beside him. "Sorry, I was in a rush this morning."

"Why are you apologizing? You're here, aren't you?" he asked, sitting up. He shook two pills from the bottle and popped them into his mouth, washing down the cinnamon coating with water. Eugh, cinnamon. "Oh god, my stomach feels worse now." He rested his head on her shoulder. "I need to give up this habit."

"It's not too healthy," said Molly, running a hand through his tangled hair. "Do you want to put on clothes or something? I can leave."

"No, it's…it's fine. I'm comfortable."

"And wrapped in a blanket."

"Sorry I opened the door in my underwear."

"It was fine—wait, no."

"No you don't like how I look?" he asked, a hint of humor in his tone.

"That's not what I _meant!_" she protested. "Oooh, you better be glad you're feeling horrible, otherwise I'd hit you."

He laughed. "So you _do _like how I look?"

She grumbled something under her breath.

"I can't hear you, Molly."

"You have a v-very nice chest," she managed through gritted teeth.

"Don't tell me that's where your eyes went."

"I like chests, okay?"

He sat up and cocked an eyebrow at her.

"You—you're horrible."

"Yeah, but you like that about me," he said, smirking.

"Only sometimes."

"Oh, _only_ sometimes."

She sighed. "Can I get you anything else?"

"Avoiding the topic now. You're _embarrassed,_ aren't you, Miss Hooper?"

"More water, food—"

"John's bringing me something."

She got up. "Well, if you don't need anything more—"

"Stay," he said, grabbing her hand. "Keep me company?"

"…fine." She flopped back down, kicking off her shoes and tucking her legs under herself. "Can I ask you something?"

"Go ahead. Can't promise my mind's all here, but I'll do my best to answer."

"Were you…serious, last night?"

"Serious about?"

"Wanting to date me."

Sherlock sucked in a breath. He was on a minefield; any wrong word could and would cause calamity. The simple answer? Yes. The complicated one? Well…still yes, but it was…_confusing_, twisted, complex. He'd be a terrible boyfriend, always forgetting important things, not knowing how to react or not react. One wrong move, just one _slight_ error, and it could end disastrously.

"Yes," he said slowly. "Yes I was. I have been."

Molly fidgeted with a bracelet, looking over him suspiciously. "You have been?"

"Since about August. We kept correspondence because I wanted to humor you, since we should be on friendly terms because of school. But…you turned out to be much more interesting than I originally thought, Molly. You have a beautiful mind."

She was flustered now, pupils dilated. "But you didn't say anything."

"Wasn't very confident about it, since I've always thought I was…incompatible, with everyone else."

"I find that hard to believe. You're—you're _Sherlock_. You're _always _confident. That's why I—"

"Why you…?"

"That's why I talk too much around you," she sighed, sitting back against the wall. "Confidence is attractive."

"So is your coloring," he said, laughing.

"God, I'm blushing, aren't I?"

"Like a ripe cherry." He leaned in and pecked her on the cheek. "I think it's cute."

"You just did that to make me redder, didn't you?"

"No." He flashed a devilish grin and kissed her dangerously close to (but not on) the lips. Molly turned a solid crimson. "_That_ I did to make you blush."

"I h-hate you."

He chuckled. "What are you doing Friday?"

"I suspect I'll be busy kissing you, won't I?"

"I was thinking more along the lines of nicking things from the science department, but that works too." He laid his head in her lap. "Will you stroke my hair as I tell you how beautiful you look?"

"Christ, Sherlock, we made out once while tipsy. Isn't it early for confessions?"

"Need I remind you I'm also hungover, sensitive to painkillers, and have an adrenaline rush because the girl I like just agreed to a date?"

"I call bullshit," she said, running a hand through his hair.

"That feels like heaven. I think I might fall asleep."

"Hey! You said you'd tell me I look beautiful if I stroked your hair!"

He sat up and looked her in the eye. "You look ravishing, Molly." He pressed his lips against hers, gently, but longingly. She tasted fresh, minty, and he caught himself missing the strawberry edge from last night.

He pulled away, feeling his headache worsen. "That was an awful idea."

"It was a fantastic idea."

"My brain is exploding."

"Lie down."

He grabbed a pillow and placed it on her lap, obeying. Her fingers lightly ran through his hair. "My tummy hurts."

"Sleep, Sherlock. You'll feel better, I promise."

"I hope you have a back-up plan when I wake up groggy and confused."

A hand glided down his back, causing shivers to run up and down his spine. "Close your eyes," she said gently.

He did, drifting off into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

John was not expecting what he saw upon returning to his room. Molly was sitting on Sherlock's bed, the cocky genius awkwardly sprawled across his mattress, head resting in her lap…asleep. Her fingers were tangled in his dark hair, a smile painted onto her face.

"This isn't what I meant by assist, Molly," he said quietly, shutting the door.

"Sorry, I know," she whispered. "He can be suave when he wants to, the educated bastard. He's a smooth-talker, too."

"I'm _very_ aware, thank you." John put a plate of food on his desk. "I brought some for you as well, not just the sleeping bear."

"Thanks. I'd get up, by I'm trapped. Brains are surprisingly heavy."

John smiled. The way Molly phrased things was so…_Molly_. "How long has it been?"

"Since he fell asleep? Maybe a half hour."

"No, I mean since you've liked him."

"Oh…I'm not sure. I was fourteen when I first met him; I turn seventeen this year, so perhaps three years? I'm pretty sure I fell instantly."

"He doesn't deserve you, you know," John said, sitting down. "You're far too good for him, and I'm worried he'll hurt you."

"Of _course_ he'll hurt me, John, it's in his nature. It won't be on purpose, but it'll still sting." She stroked Sherlock's curls, grin falling off her face. "I guess time will tell if I can stand the pain, if he's worth the hurt I'll inevitably go through."

"And if he's not?"

She shrugged. "Then I'll have to let go, won't I?"

John thought a moment, nodding. "Guess you will. You deserve so much better, though."

"I've made my choice, thank you," she said softly, smile returning. "And I'll suffer through him, if I have to. It's been three years, John, and I've finally gotten what I wanted."

"If that's what you want, then I'll stand behind you on it, and stand behind him with a cattle prod."

"Thanks, John."

"I'm going to go check on Roger and Patrick downstairs; I'll be back in a few minutes."

* * *

Sherlock sat up after the door closed. "You've liked me for _three years?_"

"You've been _awake?_"

"John isn't nearly as quiet as he thinks he is. But Molly, _three years?_"

"Yes, Sherlock, three years! I've liked you for nearly three years, practically since I first saw you."

"You never said anything. You've been waiting since first year for me to get a clue. Molly, I'm more observant than practically everyone—well, aside from Mycroft and Sherrinford—but that doesn't mean I'm not oblivious to some things. Now I feel even _more_ like shit. Don't be afraid to speak up, okay?"

"Okay."

"And," he took a deep breath and pushed back his hair. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her back onto his chest, sinking into the pillows. "If I hurt you, I'm sorry. I don't mean it. I will try my absolute hardest not to hurt you. Will you let me know if I do?"

"Sherlock—"

"Will you?"

"I—yes. Yes, I will."

"Good." He closed his eyes, settling back into his nest of fluff.

"Um, Sherlock."

"Yes?"

"You're still not wearing a shirt."

"Oh—Christ—for _god's sake_," he growled, taking one of her arms and laying it across his bare chest. "And _that_ is just to make you blush. Is it working?"

"…yes."

"Good."

"…John's going to have a heart attack."

"Oh, shit, right, he's coming back."

"Should I—"

"No, I want to see his face."

"You are a _terrible_ friend."

"And don't you know it." He opened his eyes. "This isn't too fast, is it?"

"What isn't?"

"I'm not wearing a shirt."

She giggled. "I've waited three years to see you shirtless. I'll let you know if it's too fast, all right? Can we just enjoy this moment before John gets back?"

"Can we make out when we hear him coming?"

"Absolutely not."

"Please?"

"No."

"_Molly!_"

"I will get up and leave."

"Soon, then."

Molly sighed. "I just hope we're both asleep when he walks in.

And they were. John opened the door and nearly laughed. It was appropriate, he figured, the grade's two brightest students falling in with each other. It was cute, with Molly's loving awkwardness and Sherlock's blunt, inhospitable nature. He'd have to see it through.

* * *

**A/N:** Yes, hello everyone! Squirrelgirl8 suggested I continue this a bit, so have another part. I think it'll have two or three more bits.

Thank you to everyone for reading and reviewing! I'm having far too much fun writing a sassy Sherlock.

Also I try to get to everyone who reviews, but I can't individually thank all the guests, so _super-duper _thanks to you guys!


End file.
